


Impermanence

by entanglednow



Category: Alias
Genre: Injury, M/M, Shower Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-05-17
Updated: 2010-05-17
Packaged: 2017-10-14 14:31:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 995
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/150258
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/entanglednow/pseuds/entanglednow
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Some things are easy to wash away.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Impermanence

Will's sick of swallowing. No matter how many times he does it, he still has a mouthful of pain, and the flat hard taste of metal that he can't shift from his cheeks and the back of his tongue. Any more and he's going to be sick and that's just one indignity too far. He lets it run into the sink again instead.

He's lost - God he doesn't know how many teeth, his tongue feels alien in his mouth, he could have lost four or ten. He honestly doesn't remember he was too busy trying to scream and now there are just slices of pain across every inch of his gums.

He's been standing there for a long time, when someone lays a hand on his back. He tenses, one quick twitch that drags different pain though his shoulders and arms. But Jack's hand doesn't do anything.

They probably have a manual. 'How to support victims of torture.' There are probably even diagrams, the government is so fucking fond of their educational diagrams. He wonders if Jack realises that he's still kind of terrifying, even when he's trying to be supportive - and yeah, Will doesn't even know how that happened.

Will wants to tell him not to bother. But his mouth isn't up to consonants just yet. It's easier to just stand there over the sink staring at his own hands, and he didn't realise how hard he'd pulled at his restraints until he actually looks and finds bits of skin torn up around his wrists. There's blood smeared in the spaces and trailing the curves of his knuckles. And like some strange irony it doesn't hurt until he really sees it, sees how bad it is, how much of a mess he is. He groans weakly, wincing at the pull in his jaw.

It's all just more pain to add to the ever-growing list.

The fiercely loud rush of water in the background sounds a lot like a shower and all Will has to do is think it before it sounds like the best idea in the whole world.

He's fairly sure getting into it is currently beyond him though.

When Jack turns him around he lets him, but there aren't going to be any speeches, there's just silence and the slow roll of his shirt up his waist. And Will can't remember the last time he was undressed like a child, undressed so carefully. Hands jarringly strange on bare skin.

A moment ago he'd thought he didn't feel anything at all, that he'd used up everything he had and was barely managing to make sure he could continue standing upright and breathing. But now there's a prickly third sensation, low in his gut. A misplaced slice of lust. But then, as if thinking it makes it real, there's a solid, untidy rush of it. Which is so ridiculous he wants to laugh, though he's fairly sure it would kill him.

Will's smart enough to know that's almost entirely adrenaline. He recognises the jumping raggedness of it, desperate and tinny. The way the long streak of blood on his shirt just makes it clamour louder.

He definitely notices the way Jack is ridiculously careful sliding his t-shirt up his ribs, pulling it over the bare roundness of his shoulders, fingertips trailing on flesh like a long line of fire. The sharp inhale through his nose is pretty obvious, though considering Jack is working on his slacks now wondering if he's noticed is a moot point.

Will could probably do the rest himself but there's a numb sort of fascination - and it takes him a long second to realise he's undoing the buttons on Jack's shirt without even realising whether he wants to or not.

There's a pause, an uncertainness that hangs between them and Will's fairly sure Jack's about an inch away from stepping back but Will drags his shirt out of his slacks and manages one word.

"No." It makes his jaw ache but he's pulling and Jack is bigger than him, solid. He wouldn't be able to move him if he didn't want to. He's all weight and heat and strong - wrong - and male wherever it counts. Which should matter. But somehow doesn't.

Jack's fingers knock his own out of the way, a grunt of impatience and acceptance and a hundred other things he's never going to understand.

But Will knows they're pressing for that torrent of water, and they're clearly going in together.

This is something complicated and stupid. Will knows even before Jack shoves him firmly but gently into the slick tiled wall, inhaling at the mix of cold tiles and warm water and pain that comes with every movement. Will manages some sort of thick sound that might be a word.

Then he's pressed there, pinned there with large hands, biceps flexing under Jack's fingers and there's a wet, fierce sort of desperation to the way Jack presses in and holds him there. It says maybe he isn't the only one who needs this, who needed this. Will's breathing through the water and groaning, helplessly, while Jack pushes in hard enough to hurt, hard enough to put pressure and friction where he wants it. Every sting, and ache and bruise he has is a twisting, gnawing ache only slightly less desperate than the weight of his cock.

It's fast and messy and there's no way to make it better without slipping all over the place. But it's more than good enough, because Will's shaking and gripping Jack's back with weak fingers and groaning through an aching jaw and coming too fast and too hard against the slick warmth of Jack's groin, coming with him, listening to the rush and startled gasping groan against the curve of his neck.

It's a long, painful fall back down. Because, God, everything still hurts, even under that sluggish layer of relief. But he thinks maybe Jack will hold him up for a while.

  



End file.
